


Negatively Charged Residues

by captaintinymite (augopher)



Series: Hunter and Hale [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Hale Family, Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Hospital, Alternate Universe - Human, Detective Chris Argent, Detective Derek Hale, Detective Jordan Parrish, Deucalion is a mob boss, Doctor Stiles Stilinski, Doctor Vernon Boyd, Engaged Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, F/F, F/M, FBI Agent Braeden, Insecure Stiles Stilinski, Kate was not an Argent, M/M, Married Allison Argent/Lydia Martin, New York City, Nurse Erica Reyes, Nurse Isaac Lahey, Olympic Archer Allison Argent, POV Alternating, Police Commissioner Talia Hale, Professor Lydia Martin, Stiles Stilinski Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Stiles Stilinski Has Scars, TV Show style au, Time Jump from part one, murder investigation, second in series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-26
Updated: 2016-03-26
Packaged: 2018-05-27 07:57:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6276049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/augopher/pseuds/captaintinymite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Six weeks have passed since the mass shooting at Emissary Medical Center changed Derek's and Stiles' lives forever, and they're still dealing with the aftermath. Stiles is being haunted by the events of that fateful day, and Derek is left scrambling as he and Argent deal with a rising body count in homicide cases they suspect are related to the hospital and the Deucalion Crime Family.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Survivor's Guilt

**Author's Note:**

> Content Warning: Non-graphic depiction of PTSD related anxiety and flashbacks.
> 
> A little explanation about the title: Negatively Charged Residues are types of amino acids that react favorably with water but with a negative charge- I used the title because it could be seen as a double entendre, both describing a coping technique Stiles uses in this fic, and to describe the devastating effects of trauma aftermath for all involved

_**Six Weeks Later** _

 

The Homicide Division of the NYPD was a flurry of activity, with nary an empty desk in sight. Even though it was a joint effort with the FBI, the shooting at Emissary Medical Center had left every detective busy. A conference room off to the left, served as the temporary field office. Chief Conroy had set it up soon after the boxes of evidence began to pour in. He decided the FBI task team Quantico had sent up would be better served in a separate office.

Derek sat slouched in his chair flipping through crime scene photos. Across from him, parked in front of not one, but five computer monitors, each screen split into four quadrants, Argent was up to his eyeballs in hospital surveillance feeds. Since their triple homicide case had been successfully linked to the hospital shooting, both detectives had been moved over to the Organized Crime Control Bureau, or OCCB for the foreseeable future. Even worse? That triple murder was now six murders. Three more bodies had been found in Central Park yesterday.

Beside Argent, Detective Parrish was doing the same thing. “I think I’m going to go blind if I stare at these screens any longer. Remind me again what we could possibly find in these that TARU didn’t.”

“We are looking for the exact same things they were, Parrish. I’m sure you realize how valuable it can be to see it with your own eyes. Your interpretation of the evidence could be what busts this case wide open.”

His nose buried in photos, Derek smirked at her sass. He’d always liked that about her. In a way, she reminded him of Stiles, which was always a good thing. Or at least it was in his opinion anyway.

“That right there,” Chris said, tapping the monitor, “that’s Deucalion. Believe it or not, the case file on this guy is extremely short given the list of crimes he’s supposedly responsible for. Seems the guy is smart enough to keep out of the public eye, and dangerous enough to keep people from talking. Look at the way he moves, they way he sticks close to this woman.”

Without looking up, Derek said, “I’d bet money that that woman is La Bella Lupa.”

“That’s not what I meant. I mean, yeah, Hale, I think you’re right, but look,” he rewound the footage. “She has him by the elbow, the sunglasses, the subtle guiding. I think he’s blind.”

Derek shrugged. “I don’t see how that changes anything. I mean, he’s still dangerous and a murderer even if he’s blind. It just means--not that he ever would--but he won’t be going anywhere alone. A white cane would show weakness. Having a beautiful woman on his elbow just looks like fancy window dressing. The fact that she’s just as fucking dangerous is gravy.”

“ _You_ think she’s attractive?”

Derek didn’t need to even look at the guy to see the disbelief on his face. His voice was dripping with incredulity. He tapped his pen on the table. “Aesthetically speaking, yes. I mean all that is based on the composite Braeden gave to our sketch artist. Good looking woman. Sure.” He

“How does that even work?”

He was only half listening. “She describes the woman to the artist and bam, we have a sketch.” He paused, Chris’ words having taken a moment to sink in. “Oh you mean the other thing? Allison ever tell you, ‘Aww, he’s handsome,’ and you knew she was merely appreciating a pretty face? Same thing here. Look, aside from her size, which might be seen as a bit intimidating, people are naturally going to be less suspicious of a pretty woman. Ridiculous if you ask me, because let me tell you, my former partner, was suspicious as fuck. I don’t care how pretty she was, but such is the world we live in.”

Argent turned back to his screens to watch events unfold. “Morrell was able to give our guys a lot of intel. So at least there’s that. We are still no closer to cracking our homicide cases t-.”

“Oh,” Parrish cut him off. “I took one of the recovery photos of Julia Baccari by and showed your witness. She didn’t even need a second before she confirmed that was the person she had seen the night of the first murders.”

“Fat lot of good that does. Last known address for Julia Baccari was a dead end.”

Why did Argent have to be such downer sometimes? “That was what the witnesses for the recent murders said too, Jordan. That her picture looked an awful lot like the woman they’d seen.”

“Yeah, but what I can’t figure out is...what the hell is her motive? I mean, these six victims have _nothing_ to link them to Duke. Nothing. Why these people? Why not go after his lieutenants? Or his peons?”

“Yeah, I’m at a loss there.” He was, truly. With each new lead, they only found themselves asking more questions, following another evidentiary rabbit down a hole. Derek straightened up in his chair, setting the file down on the table.

He looked up just in time to see Stiles walk into frame on the closest  screen. His pulse quickened in his chest, because this was the precise reason he’d opted out of reviewing the footage. Neither Argent or Parrish had even spoken a word of protest. Yet, he didn’t even have time to look away before Heather went down. Less than a moment later, he watched as Stiles glanced over his shoulder, and then her falling body collided with his.

Derek could pinpoint the exact moment Stiles had been shot, because his body lurched a bit to the side. Stiles hit the tile hard.

He stared at the screen unblinking for several minutes, his breath caught in his throat. Hell, he was even cognizant of the way his palms had begun to sweat. Argent and Parrish might not have recognized Stiles, but Derek would know that profile and ski-slope nose anywhere. As people ran around in panic, fleeing for their lives, he tried to force himself to close his eyes to know avail. In fact, he couldn’t even blink when the scene went eerily still.

Then, he watched Stiles drag himself out from under Heather’s lifeless body. Erica ran into frame, and his lungs remembered how to breathe. Though the video had no audio, he swore he could hear Stiles scream when Erica turned him over.

“Hey, what do you make of this?” Argent asked. Or at least he thought it was Argent. Honestly, Derek found his hearing a bit muffled by the sound of his pulse  pounding in his ears. It was like watching a horror film, the sight of the blood, Stiles’ blood. So much blood, so very-

“Earth to Hale. Hello.”

Derek was vaguely aware of someone moving his hand in front of Derek’s face, but he couldn’t look away.

“Are you even listen…” It was only then, that Argent followed Derek’s line of sight. “Oh. Let’s just turn this off. You don’t need to be watching that.” He reached over and switched off the screen.

Derek blinked, but his eyes were still focused on the black screen of the monitor. He licked his lips. His chest heaved. “I...I…” He closed his eyes and pressed a balled fist to his mouth. He glanced over to see both Argent and Parrish staring at him, concern set into their features.

He felt like crying. He wanted to cry or shout in anger, anything to force himself out of the vice grip those images currently had on him. Derek could have gone his whole life without seeing that video. Burying his head in his crossed arms, he tried to calm down. Tried, and failed. He felt a reassuring squeeze on his shoulder. “I...shouldn’t be working this case.”

“No,” Chris said, “probably not, but your eye for detail would be missed. I will make sure to keep you from seeing anything else pertaining to Stiles.”

Derek sat back up in his chair and stared up at the ceiling, taking deep calming breaths. “Thanks. “I’m sorry what were you saying?”

“You know what? Forget it. Let’s go grab a slice. My treat, Hale. ”

 

***

  


Stiles jostled around a bit as the subway train rolled down the track. Though he could feel the now clammy metal of the pole he’d clasped his hand around and the warmth radiating from the travel mug of coffee in his other one, he watched around him, feeling oddly detached from it all. The sensation was nothing new, more the norm lately. It was hard to just go back to being the carefree and sarcastic guy he had been before when he had to live with the damage both physical and emotional.

Even harder still, was the way the guilt of surviving nagged him, scratching at the forefront of his mind every waking moment and then some. The shooting had been all over the news for days, weeks afterwards. Neither he nor Derek could turn the TV onto anything but Nickelodeon or the Cartoon Network without someone making a comment. ESPN was even out, because sports commentators seemed to find it necessary anytime a team from New York was competing to bring it up. There were some days he just wanted to curl up in a ball in the bathroom--or in one instance, under the bed--and pretend the outside world didn’t exist.

And there were some days where he actually did.

Twenty-one people had lost their lives that day, another thirty injured, himself included, and yesterday had been his first day back to work since the attack. It hadn’t gone well.

Sure, construction crews had come through and worked day and night to get the hospital back to working order, erasing any evidence that there had been a crime there at all. But Stiles knew. He saw the evidence clear as day in the fresh coats of paint he could still smell and new fixtures that seemed out of place amongst the old ones. Even though it was long gone, he could still see invisible pools and spatters of blood haunting him from every corner. None taunted louder than the red outside the locker room.

When he’d walked past it yesterday, he actually had to stop, turn around and walk back outside to take heaving lungfuls of fresh air, or as fresh as the air on the Upper East Side ever got. There had been something oddly grounding about the smell of taxi exhaust and too many food aromas coalesced together.

The disembodied voice of the automated announcements brought him out of his head, but only slightly. _“Now arriving at 103rd Street Station. Number 6 Express to the Bronx. Next stop 113th Street. Please watch your step as you exit the train.”_

He shuffled along, up the stairs and out onto the street, barely aware of much until he walked in the doors to EMC. The person they’d hired to replace poor Mary at the front desk, Stiles felt bad, but he couldn’t remember the man’s name. Paul or Pat or something. He supposes it couldn’t be easy for him either, knowing that the reason he had a job was because the person who had held the position before had been killed..

Coming back to an understaffed workplace didn’t actually surprise him. It was probably the fact that no one wanted to respond to the job postings. Who would want to work in a hospital where a mafia vendetta had spilled over, where assailants had shown up with assault rifles and killed almost two dozen people? He surely wouldn’t. In fact, he’d honestly considered looking for other jobs. Certainly, no one would blame him. So why was he continuing to work here?

He liked his coworkers, and that sort of thing went a long way.

Stiles pushed open the door and walked over to his locker. It took him four tries to get the combination today. Yesterday it was seven. He figured it was some kind of mental block, self-preservation sort of thing. If he couldn’t change into scrubs, then he couldn’t possibly be in the hallway to get shot.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The hard edge on the door to his locker bit into his hand as he gripped it tightly. In his sneakers, he curled his toes, digging them into the memory foam inserts he liked to wear. He clenched his jaw and released. In his head, he repeated his go-to words for grounding.

 _There are twenty essential common amino acids. They are: Glycine, Alanine, Valine, Leucine, Isoleucine, Proline, Phenylalanine,Tyrosine, Tryptophan, Serine, Threonine, Cysteine, Methionine, Asparagine, Glutamine, Lysine, Arginine, Histidine,_ _  
_ _Aspartate, and Glutamate._

He ran through his list three times, before he was actually able to move. Changing into his scrubs pants was easy enough, but once he had his shirts off, he caught a glimpse of his torso in the mirror inside his locker...and then that was all he could see, the way the angry red scars stood out against his fair skin. They marred his skin, a constant reminder of the pain, the fear, the guilt. All his attempts at grounding were derailed in an instant, and he began to tremble.

Seconds ticked by. Hell, for all he knew it could have been minutes or hours. Time had this way of distorting itself for him in moments like this, where it either blended together, lines between minutes blurring like a camera out of focus, or just disappeared completely. He hadn’t lost days yet, but he dreaded the instance he actually did.

A gentle hand squeezed his shoulder, and he flinched so hard he thought he was going to jump out of his skin.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Stiles, it’s me, Boyd. Dr. Boyd. You, Derek, Nurse Reyes and me have gone on a couple double dates. We watch Islanders games together. We’re friends. It’s okay.”

Erica. Oh. Erica, the way she held her hands to his bleeding torso. She’d dragged him down the hallway, _dragged_ him.

Numb, he was aware of Boyd moving him to the bench to sit. “I...I… I shouldn’t have come back to work so soon.” He felt the damp chill of a wet washcloth against the back of his neck.

As Boyd sat down beside him, he took Stiles’ hand in his, squeezing it in the same gentle way he had Stiles’ shoulder. “You are in the doctor’s locker room. You’re safe. Can you do something for me?”

Stiles nodded. “I...I think...so.”

“Good. Describe the room for me.”

He blinked. “The walls are white. There are navy blue lockers and two rows of benches. The bathroom has three stalls and a urinal. Two sinks and one paper towel dispenser. Dr. Paolo left his boots on the floor again. The trash can needs to be emptied. Our scrubs are purple. I don’t have on a shirt, but I’m wearing black and cobalt sneakers.”

“Good. That’s good.”

Slowly, Stiles felt himself coming back to the present, where the images of horror weren’t haunting him.

Boyd handed him a scrubs shirt out of his locker. “Honestly, if you weren’t already in a committed relationship, I’d tell you to milk those scars for pity sex.”

Stiles barked out a wet laugh and shrugged. “I’m- I haven’t really been up for sex lately. I mean...I was only medically cleared to resume normal activities last week. But...I hate them- these scars. I hate them. They’re hideous.”

Boyd rubbed the top of Stiles’ head. “You may hate them, but I bet Derek doesn’t even notice them.”

Feeling a bit clearer in the head, Stiles patted Boyd on the shoulder, offering up a thanks as he grabbed his ID, white coat, and headed out to the hospital floor.

“Good morning, Dr. Stilinski. Nice to see you back.” Isaac said, handing him his tablet. “You have a fractured ulna in exam 4.”

A fractured arm he could handle.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author note: I’m almost certain the FBI has a field office in NYC with its own organized crime unit. So there would be no reason to have a temporary field office in the NYPD Det. Bureau, but for fic sake…
> 
> TARU stands for Technical assistance response unit. I couldn’t find an exact answer whether they handled forensic video analysis or not. Just a guess that they do


	2. An Invitation

“Ugh, Parrish. That is a crime against nature,” Chris grumbled as he watched Parrish ate his pizza with a knife and fork. “A genuine travesty. At least Hale doesn’t doesn’t commit pizzeria sacrilege when he eats.” 

Though, come on...a salad and a slice of veggie? And the man called himself a native New Yorker. Whatever. Chris picked up his folded slice of pepperoni and took a bite.

“Sorry. I’m used to deep dish. You try eating that without a knife and fork.”

He shook his head. “You Chicagoans and your deep dish. I will never understand it.” His phone buzzed in his pocket. With a quick read of the text Chris relayed the message. “Maroney says ballistics on the vic’s from yesterday are a match to the previous three. So, there’s that.”

“Hey, you said no work talk at lunch.”

“Pertinent information, Jordan,” Derek said between bites of food.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” Chris pulled a couple envelopes from the inside pocket of his suit jacket, handing one to each of them, “it’s Victoria’s birthday on Monday, and Allison just informed me that we will be throwing a birthday party for her next Saturday. You are both invited, as well as Stiles and a plus one for you, Parrish. I wasn’t sure if…”

Parrish tucked the invite into his pocket. “I’m not seeing anyone, but my roommate would probably enjoy the party.

Derek at least opened the envelope and read the invitation. “What type of party are we talking about? Formal dinner, informal- Should I bring a hostess gift?”

Chris stared at him. “Who are you, and what have you done with Hale?”

“What?” he asked with a smirk. “Look who my mother is. She’s held the same office for eight years now, and before that was the commissioner’s chief of staff for another ten years. You think I never had to learn proper dinner party etiquette? Come on, Chris. Give me some credit. I’ve been to more fancy parties in the name of politics than I care to admit.”

The man did have a point. “Touché. It’s not a black tie affair. Nice clothes?”

“You’re not sure?”

“It’s a cocktail party. Just dress like you would for a nice dinner date night, which for you shouldn’t be a problem.” Hale didn’t have a response, just rose a judgmental eyebrow at him. “Don’t look at me like that. I know how much money you spend on your suits, Mr. GQ.”

 

***

 

Derek picked up the tongs from the spoon rest next to the stove and lifted the chicken thighs out of the pan, setting them on a plate next to the prosciutto he’d seared first. Music from The Black Keys played softly in the background, and he sang along as he cooked. Sitting on the floor next to him, was Nightwing, his tail flicking back and forth on the floor while he waited--or more accurately, hoped--for Derek to drop something. 

He’d just have to be disappointed, because Derek was more than skilled in the kitchen. When Nightwing whined, he looked down at his dog. “Oh hush. You know you’re not getting any of this, and anyway, I  _ just _ fed you.”

Nightwing yipped, excited as though he’d decided that Derek would indeed be giving him something from the pan.

“Don’t look at me like that. Your food is literally meat and veggies. I make it myself. No, don’t- Don’t give me that sad stare…” he sighed, breaking off a small piece of chicken. “Fine.” He held it  down for the dog to eat out of his hand and then shooed the dog out of the kitchen.. After he’d washed his hands--no one wanted dog slobber in their food--he grabbed the bottle of Pinot Grigio from the fridge, pouring a splash into the skillet to deglaze the bottom. He added back in the sauteed onions and mushrooms to let them simmer in the wine before he added the rest of the sauce.

It had been a long week, for both of them. The latest murder investigation had put them under even more scrutiny, because if there was one crime that could cripple a city like no other, it was a serial killer on the loose. To be fair though, no one in their special unit would label their cases as those belonging in that category. At least, not yet.

Yesterday, they’d been able to find a loose connection among the first three murders. Each of them had been paying Deucalion for ‘protection’ for years. It had been easy to miss at first. The transactions weren’t the kind to show up in the books. Cash, and the hands that traded it, was hard to track.

Braeden had a theory, one that wouldn’t hold water until they could find a way to connect it to the fourth victim, but it was a sound one otherwise. Perhaps, she’d said, this was a vendetta, revenge for what they’d done to Baccari’s face. If it was even her, but it was the only lead they had. God, he hoped they solved this thing soon. The fifteen hour shifts were a nightmare.

It would be one thing if Stiles wasn’t also working odd hours. Derek hadn’t even seen him in almost two days, having been called out on a case at three a.m. two days ago, and Stiles pulling a double shift yesterday.

His ringing phone pulled him out of his head, and he turned down the music before answering without checking the screen. “Hello?”

His mother’s voice carried down the line. “Hi, sweetie. I was just calling to see if you’d had a chance to discuss your uncle’s offer with Stiles?”

He sandwiched the phone between his ear and shoulder as he stirred the sauce. “No, sorry. We’ve both had the worst work shifts this week. Do you promise that he won’t insist on using his designer? Cause, I gotta tell you, I don’t care how classy his club is considered to-”

“Yes. He assured me that if you chose his place for the venue, that he would relocate all of those ridiculous portraits of himself. Honestly, with all that money, you’d think he’d be able to buy taste.”

Distracted by her words, he absentmindedly hit his wrist on the pan. With a hiss of pain, he yanked his arm away. “I’ll talk to him. See what he says.”

“Look, I’m not trying to pressure you. Just save you the money you’d spend on a venue.”

He rinsed his hand under cool water. “I know. I know. Hey though, I need to go. I’m cooking dinner.”

“Sure. Good night, sweetie.”

“Night, mom.” He ended the call. A minute or two passed before he heard the jingle of Stiles’ keys as he dropped them in the bowl by the door. This was followed by an excited bark from Nightwing. Derek smiled when he heard Stiles asking him if he needed a walk.

“No. I took care of that already.”

Derek leaned into Stiles’ embrace when he wrapped his arms around Derek’s waist a few moments later. 

He pressed a kiss to the back of Derek’s neck. “How was your day?” he asked, resting his chin on Derek’s shoulder.

“Long.” He turned off the stove and spun in Stiles’ arms. Derek couldn’t miss the exhaustion in Stiles’ face. It wasn’t the kind that came from a physically grueling shift, but one of an emotionally taxing day. His eyes held a glazed over yet haunted expression, the corners tight with fatigue. He reached out and smoothed the crease between his brows that usually formed when he was stressed. Stiles frowned a lot when under stress. “Hey,” he said, voice whisper soft, “you okay?”

Stiles gave a shrug. Then, his lips drew in before quivering. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “No. It was...it was a bad day.”

He held him tighter, careful not to put too much pressure on his left flank. He’d made that mistake once, and would not do it again. Stiles had almost broken down in tears, saying it felt like being punched. When he’d contacted his doctor, he’d been told it sounded a lot like phantom pain, except it wasn’t from a missing limb but an organ. 

Derek stepped out of the embrace and grabbed a couple plates. “You feel up to eating?”

Stiles nodded. “Smells good, but maybe just a little. Like half portion?”

He kissed Stiles’ forehead. “Why don’t you go sit down on the couch? I’ll bring yours to you. What would you like to drink? I have a bottle of open grigio?”

“Just water, thanks.” 

They watched  _ Sportscenter  _ while they ate, Stiles not saying a word other than praising Derek’s meal. It was hard, watching him struggle after the shooting. They both knew what was wrong, knew it before Stiles’ therapist had put a formal diagnosis to it. Knowing didn’t make it any easier. There was only so much Derek could help him with. 

He could be supportive, mindful of Stiles’ triggers, give him space when needed, and make sure others respected that need as well. But...he couldn’t bear the burden of his suffering for him. He wished he could, though. 

Stiles set his plate down on the coffee table, a little less delicately than he normally would have. His hands had a subtle tremor in them the way they did when he’d suppressed too much stress in a day. They did that a lot lately. As he went to grab his cup, his hand bumped Derek’s glass of wine, sending it to the floor where it spilled onto the carpet.

Stiles was off the couch in an instant, blotting the ground with his napkin as tears ran down his face. Over and over, he muttered apologies as if Derek would be mad at him for something as common as a spilled glass of wine.

“Hey, hey,” he said, pulling Stiles back up onto the couch, “it’s okay. Just wine.”

“I know that! I just- God, I hate this so much,” he mumbled into Derek’s shoulder.

He rubbed the back of Stiles’ head. “I know you do. If there was a way for me to erase what happened I would. I’d move mountains if that’s what it took,” his voice broke. “What do you say we just curl up under a blanket right here and watch something silly?”

“Okay.” 

“Be right back.” Derek rose from the couch and headed for the laundry room where the load he’d switched when he got home had just finished drying. From inside the dryer, he plucked Stiles’ favorite Mets blanket, still warm. Before returning to the living room, he grabbed their planning binder and a magazine from the dining room table. “So,” he started, taking his place at one end of the couch and stretched out on the cushions so Stiles could sit between his legs. He threw the blanket over both of them, “how about this?” He pulled up  _ Emperor’s New Groove _ from their Netflix queue. “We watch Kuzco learn his lesson about being a dick while we make headway on this whole wedding planning thing. You can tell me about your day, or you can keep it to yourself. Whatever you want. Okay?” He wrapped an arm around Stiles’ shoulders and lay the books on his lap. 

Stiles picked up the magazine. “I didn’t even know they made a magazine for us. Every single one I found was filled with dresses and makeup and things to make the bride’s day perfect. We got like maybe ten pages per issue. S’why I was looking online mostly.”

“I know.”

Stiles flipped through several pages. “This...is only men. You found a magazine for same sex weddings?”

“Laura found it. Don’t ask me how.”

“This is great.” He paused and was silent for several minutes. “A man, late 20’s came through the ER today with a GSW to the torso. White guy, pale, dark hair.”

Derek listened to Stiles’ shaky breath, listened to him lick his lips.

“He was supposed to be my patient, but I just...froze. I was standing in the middle of resus staring at everyone work. I couldn’t move, and then someone knocked an emesis basin onto the floor. It was so loud. After that- I don’t even remember being moved to the on call room, but when I finally came back, Erica was sitting on the bed with me. I’d been in there for two hours.” He took a shuddering breath. “Dr. Martin said I shouldn’t be assigned any gunshot wounds for a while. It’s like-” He scrubbed his hands down his face and sobbed. “I can’t even do my job! I’ve been working towards this for so long. I pass my boards and only get  _ months _ before…”

Derek pulled him back against his chest. “I know,” he said into Stiles’ hair.

After several minutes, Stiles seemed to calm a bit. “So, what part of the planning do you want to handle tonight?”

“I wanted to bring this up a couple days ago, but you know, work happened. Uncle Peter volunteered his nightclub as a venue and an open bar free of charge. I said I’d discuss it with you.”

Stiles rubbed his forehead. “That’s a really generous offer. I’d have to see it first. Can we do that before giving him an answer?”

“Of course. I warn you, he’s a narcissist and has these terribly pretentious portraits of himself hanging up. They’re some odd fusion of art nouveau, futurism and pop art. But, my mom said they’d be removed for the wedding.”

When Stiles chuckled at his words, Derek finally relaxed. If he was able to laugh, then Stiles was on his way to feeling better. At least until tomorrow. Instead of planning anything further, Derek set the books aside, deciding it was more important to get Stiles laughing than making trivial wedding decisions. He switched off the light on the end table, and they continued watching the movie in the dark.

It was nice.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Resus is short for resuscitation area in an emergency room.


	3. Too Much On the Plate

“Took you long enough,” Chris said, as Derek finally showed up to their crime scene. “Jesus, Hale, you look terrible.” 

“Gee, thanks.”

He handed him a steaming cup of coffee. Derek took a sip and grimaced.  “Yeah, sorry. They were out of whipped cream. Best I could do was have them add foam.” He looked at Derek’s bleary eyed gaze. “Rough night?” The deadpanned stare he received in return spoke volumes, but he couldn’t help poking the bear. “I hate overnight calls. Nothing like being woken up at two in the morning with the words, ‘Surprise, Argent. Another homicide.’ Your friend, Maroney really needs to work on her people skills.”

Derek nodded as though he was pondering Chris’ words, but yawned instead. “Braeden isn’t one to mince words.” He rubbed the back of his neck first and then his temples. “I wasn’t actually asleep.”

Chris let the remark slide for the time being and led him over to where the body lay, strewn lifelessly on the fresh snow in the alley. When Derek recoiled a bit at the sight, Chris pat him on the back. “I know. Total overkill. Coroner said best guess is at least twenty stab wounds, but they won’t know for sure until autopsy. They’ve already been through for photos. We’re free to do our thing.”

Derek pulled a pair of neoprene gloves from his jacket pocket and put one on his right hand. He crouched down and turned the deceased man’s head to the side, revealing a large wound. “Looks like blunt trauma to the occipital. Is this…” he trailed off as he noticed the victim’s neck. “You’ve gotta be kidding me. Another one?” 

“Same guitar wire ligature strangulation. Just like the other four.”

“Give us a fucking break will you,” he groaned to seemingly no one, but Chris knew his complaint was meant for their killer, hell, probably the universe as well. “As if some of us don’t already have enough of their plate.” Shucking off the gloves, Derek stood and walked over to the brick wall. He leaned against it, his eyes fixed on the scene around him.

He took several long drinks from his coffee, and Chris used the opportunity to stand beside him. It didn’t take a seasoned detective to notice something was off about his partner’s usually reticent and stone-faced demeanor.  _ How to breach the subject gently… _ Derek unbuttoned his charcoal, wool coat and reached into the inside pocket to check his phone, before returning it to it’s place. Even at two in the morning, despite looking like he’d had less than an hour of sleep all night, the guy still managed to pull together polished attire. Honestly, Chris couldn’t understand how the guy did it. He suspected though, the expertly tailored, three-piece suits and custom dress shirts functioned as something akin to armor. 

He understood that. He himself, did that with the colors of his suits he wore to work. Never outside the job, had Chris ever,  _ ever _ worn a brown suit or anything similar. He chose plain colored ties with no patterns and a style of shoe he’d never wear otherwise. Being in this job for as long as he had been, he had seen his share of things that had been difficult to process. Each of the detectives on the force seemed to have their own way to distance themselves from the shit they dealt with every day. Parrish, Chris had come to learn, had a specific playlist of music he didn’t particularly care for, that he listened to while on the subway during his commute. “Something you want to talk about?”

Derek gestured to the scene, and appeared about to speak, when he cocked his head to the side, squinting at the scene. He held up a finger, signalling to Chris to hold the thought for a minute, and walked over to the victim’s open (and empty) briefcase. Pushing it with his shoe, Derek moved it until it lay directly under one of the lights illuminating their crime scene.

“What is it?”

“Do we have an ID yet?”

“No. They’re working on it.”

Derek pulled out his notebook (Chris fought to not roll his eyes. Of course the guy preferred Moleskine’s) and a pen. Chris half expected it to be a Montblanc. No, just a Pilot. As his partner scribbled away, he walked around to the other side of him to see just what in the hell had him so intrigued. 

Though faint, he saw where fresh ink had transferred onto the brown fabric lining of the briefcase. “Damn, you have good eyes, Hale. What does it say?”

“Hard to say without a mirror, but it looks like a ledger. This logo here, I’ve seen it before. I just can’t place it.” He lifted the victim’s hand and looked at the fingers.

“He was able to put up a little fight. CSU has already scraped underneath for usable DNA.”

From his pocket, Derek pulled his pocket knife. “Got a spare evidence bag?”

“Little under-prepared aren’t you?” When Derek sent daggers in his direction, Chris walked over to the squad car to retrieve a collection bag. He made it back to the body just in time to see him cutting a small swatch of fabric from the man’s sleeve cuff. “See something else?”

“Just a smudge and an odd substance sticking to the sleeve. I mean, it looks like makeup. Similar color to a foundation or cream.” He sealed up the fabric in the bag.

“Well what do you say we finish up here and catch an early breakfast?”

With an exhausted nod, Derek returned his attention to the body, and they continued to investigate their crime scene.

 

***

 

Derek stabbed at his vegetarian, egg white omelette. After that gruesome scene, he didn’t really have much of an appetite. Pushing around the cottage cheese on the plate, he sighed. “I need a vacation.”

“You and me both. So,” Chris said, taking a bite of his short stack, “what’s going on?”

He raised an eyebrow at him, between bites. When he finished chewing and swallowed his bite, he asked, “What do you mean?”

Chris pointed his fork at him, and Derek cringed at the way a glob of syrup dripped from the tines down onto the table. Blood, when it was cold, like it had been in that alley...well it had a similar consistency. Not usually prone to squeamishness, he just couldn’t shake the sight of all that blood, bright red in contrast to the pure white of the snow. It looked so much like-

“You look like haven’t slept all week. You took over an hour after I called you to get to the crime scene. You forgot your kit. What’s going on?”

He pushed his plate away from him and dropped his head into his hands. “When you called, I was in the middle of a family emergency. I couldn’t just leave.”

“Oh shit. Everyone okay?”

He ran a hand through his hair. “Physically sure. I had to wait for my sister to get to my place before leaving. I couldn’t just leave Stiles alone like that. He was- He’s not been- It’s been rough, okay? His emotional recovery has been, anyway. I do what I can to help him, but I can’t stop the nightmares from haunting him. And...it’s-” he pressed a fist against his mouth as he tried to rein in his emotions. “Seeing him like that, terrified when he wakes up, frantically pawing at his side as if there’s still an open wound, or watching as he totally disappears for a bit. I mean, he’s looking at me, but I know he’s back in that hospital. There is only so much I can do to help.”

Chris gave him a thoughtful nod. “Sounds like PTSD.”

“We both  _ know  _ what it is. We knew it before his therapist even said so. Knowing it and dealing with it are two different things. You called and I was in the middle of talking him down from a panic attack. So, with all due respect to our John Doe and his family, the crime scene was not first on my priority list.”

Chris leaned back against the seat, and sighed. “I understand. Okay, I don’t, not really. But, well you know what I mean.”

Derek snagged a grape off his plate and popped it into his mouth, more as a distraction than from actual hunger. “It’s just killing me to see him suffering. I mean, I care about him more than I’ve ever cared about anything or anyone in my life, and it’s breaking my heart. He worked so hard to get where he is, and to be board certified….an actual doctor for three months only to have it all go to shit, it sucks.”

“He’ll get there. Sounds like he’s got a good support system. That goes a long way.”

“Yeah.” As he watched Chris finish up his meal, Derek’s thoughts drifted to Stiles’ tear-stained face a few hours earlier as he clung to Derek’s shirt like a life raft.

 

***

  
  


Derek finally crawled back into bed as the sun began to break over the horizon. He had maybe four hours before he had to be back into the station, and he intended to make the most of them. He’d made sure to walk Nightwing before going to bed and prayed the dog would not wake him up at seven-thirty like he did every morning. Curling around Stiles’ slumbering form always felt like home to him, and this was no exception.

As he shifted around a bit to get comfortable, Stiles stirred. “Hey, babe,” he said, his voice rough from sleep.

Derek kissed the back of his shoulder, longing for the days when his lips would press against the same spot and meet bare skin. Stiles always slept with a shirt on now. He showered alone, made sure he was dressed before he’d let Derek come in, and that, Derek thought, was what hurt the most.

He knew it wasn’t Stiles pushing him away. Stiles was just as affectionate as he’d been before the shooting. No, it hurt because Derek could see the insecurity on his fiance’s face as plain as day. Like there was any way Derek would find him less attractive just because of some scars. Whatever, he’d just have to work harder to make him feel good about the way he looked. “Hey. How are you feeling?”

“Like I was hit by a train.”

“Do you...do you need to talk about it?”

He felt Stiles shake his head in the dark. “No. This is good. You just being here; it’s enough.”

  
  
  



	4. The Jim Gordon to My Batman

The din of the party vibrated through the floor in the corridor outside the Argent’s apartment, and Stiles could already feel his anxiety rising. As Derek reached out to press the doorbell, Stiles stopped him. “Just wait a minute. Okay? I just-” 

Then, he felt a warm weight from a comforting hand on the back of his neck. “If, at any time you feel like we need to leave, promise me you’ll tell me.”

Stiles shook his head vehemently. “No, no. This is an important party for you, to make connections, to network. I don’t want to-”

Derek turned to him and took Stiles’ face in his hands. “You are more important to me than making connections.”

“I know. I’ll be okay.” Stiles took a deep breath and gave Derek a nod. With all the noise inside, he was surprised anyone could hear the doorbell, but the door opened a moment later, where they were greeted by a warm dimpled smile and just about the friendliest face Stiles had ever seen. 

“You must be Hale...I’m sorry. My dad never actually told me your name. He always just calls you Hale when he talks about work.” The woman extended her hand in introduction, and Derek shook it. “Hi, I’m Allison.”

“Derek, and this is my fiance...” he trailed off the way he usually did to allow Stiles to introduce himself.

“Stiles,” he said, shaking her hand as well. “Nice to meet you.”

“Please come in. Uh, my parents I think are in the dining room, but there are a lot of officers from the force and the DA’s office are around somewhere.”

Derek linked his arms with Stiles as they made the rounds. Dozens of names came his way, but if there was a quiz later, he didn’t think he’d remember ninety percent of them. When Derek excused himself to find Chris, Stiles wandered around aimlessly, trying to get comfortable at the party.

It didn’t work very well, and he soon found himself standing at the picture windows in the Argent’s living room as he looked out over Murray Hill. 

“Parties aren’t your thing?”

Startled from his thoughts, he looked over to see a petite redhead sipping from a glass of red wine. Though he hadn’t been introduced to her, she had an air of familiarity to her that he found oddly comforting. “Yeah, not really. I mean,” he rubbed his upper right arm, “they used to be more enjoyable I guess. I only know one person here. It’s...a bit lonely.”

“I’m Lydia, Allison’s wife. Have you met her yet?”

“Beautiful smile, brown hair. I mean that in the most innocent way possible. I’m not trying to hit on your wife or anything.”

Lydia gave a similarly warm smile as Allison had, also with dimples. “I wasn’t worried that you were.”

“I’m Stiles.”

“Charmed. How do you know the Argent's?”

“My fiance is Chris’ partner.”

She quirked an eyebrow at him. “Dapper Dan is your fiance? He certainly pretties up the scenery in here. That’s for sure.”

“I know. Believe it or not, he’s dressed down tonight. No tie. No jacket.” 

Lydia turned and stared out the window. “It’s a great view. Do you live near here?”

“No. We’re in the Upper East Side. The Nemeton.”

She whistled. “Fancy digs. Pricey digs for a detective’s salary.”

He glanced over and gave her a smirk. “I’m a physician.”

“Ahhh," she said with a nod, "That explains it. You look so young.”

Finally, for the first time that night, he found himself laughing. “I get that a lot. I’m almost thirty.”

"No, need to explain. I get it. I got my Ph.D at twenty-three. Well, my first one anyway.”

Now, it was his turn to whistle in surprise. “Impressive. What’s your field?”

“Mathematics. Yours?”

“Emergency room medicine.”

“Go you.” She gave him a playful pat on his shoulder, more of a light slap. It didn’t hurt, and yet, he flinched all the same. 

Hyper-vigilance- 47. Stiles- 0

Lydia’s brows drew together in concern, and Stiles could see the moment she had puzzled things out for herself. “Are you at Emissary during the shooting?” When he nodded, she opened her arms to offer a hug. 

He wanted to take her up on it, but couldn’t. Instead, he held up his hands to stop her. “I’m sorry. I can’t. Maybe, after I know you better? I had a lot of strangers just decide they could hug me afterwards, and it...it’s not you.”

“Stiles, no need to apologize. My mother is the Chief of Medicine there. She's just miserable. A lot of the staff that died, she'd known for years.”

Now he knew why Lydia looked familiar. “You're Dr. Martin’s daughter? You look a lot like her.”

She gave him a genuine smile of appreciation. “Thank you.”

“Enough about me,” he said, glancing over his shoulder, trying to locate Derek, “what do you do with that impressive brain of yours?”

“I’m a professor at Columbia, partial differential equations.”

“No way!” Small freaking world. “My sister-in-law’s dad is a professor of East Asian history at Columbia. Professor Yukimura. Ken, he’s a good guy.”

Lydia shook her head. “Sorry, I don’t get over to the history department mu...Hey, Ally,” she said as Allison came to stand at her side.

“Sorry to interrupt, but my mom wanted to meet you, Stiles.”

Before he could say a word, he found himself being led back into the fray.

  
  
  
  


Across the apartment, Derek had been trying to excuse himself from an engrossing conversation with one of the assistants to the district attorney for the last half hour, but it was futile. The guy was the worst, most pretentious- Honestly, he hadn’t managed to get a word in edgewise other than empty filler phrases in order to sound interested. So far, Derek had learned Mr. Whittemore’s son was some model in Europe, he was an avid golfer--has had two holes in one--, a non-drinker, and drove some fancy foreign import bought with his wife’s money.  _ Ugh, kill me now. _ “Oh, absolutely.” 

He wasn’t even sure what he’d just agreed with. God, he hoped it wasn’t in support for overturning the Marriage Equality Act. 

Feigning interest in whatever topic the conversation slid into next, he scanned the room for Stiles. He hadn’t seen him in a while and was a little worried that Stiles was feeling overwhelmed by everything and didn’t want to tell Derek.

“Oh say, have you met Jennifer?”

“I’m sorry. What? I didn’t quite catch that.” He pointed to his ear as if to say ‘speak louder,’ which he, in no way, wanted. Then, Atty. Whittemore, welcomed over a woman that Derek assumed was the aforementioned, Jennifer. 

“Have you met Ms. Blake?”

He took a moment to look at her. Brown hair, brown eyes, pretty, a bit awkward...but nope. He couldn’t place her. “Can’t say I have.”

“Jennifer, this is Detective Derek Hale. He’s the Commissioner’s son. Derek, this is Jennifer Blake. She’s one our new paralegals in the DA’s office, has one hell of a forehand on the tennis court, and is originally from Maryland.”

That’s it? The only thing Whittemore knew about him was that he was the Commissioner’s son?

“So you’re a detective?”

He was suddenly talking only to Jennifer. Whittemore, the asshole, had scampered off. “Yes, homicide. Though right now they have me working organized crime. Hours are killing me.”

She patted his arm, throwing her head back with an obvious fake laugh. “Isn’t that the truth?”

It was. Why wouldn’t it be?

“Tom mentioned my affinity for tennis. What do you like for hobbies?”

Small talk was the worst, and Derek failed at it miserably. Where was Stiles when he needed him? “I like cooking, sports, um-”

“Watching or playing?”

“Both. I played baseball in college.”

He watched her brows rise in piqued interest. She pushed her hair off her shoulders. “Wow. What school?”

“Bucknell.”

“And you didn’t go professional? You certainly look like you’re as in shape as a professional athlete.”

He squinted at her. Was she… She stroked his arm this time, and yep. She was flirting with him.  _ Damn it. I am getting myself an engagement ring to wear too _ .  _ I’ll even let Stiles pick it out. _ He lifted her hand off his arm. “I didn’t want to. And, I wasn’t that good.”

“I bet you’re still amazing. Care to give me a private lesson?" Once more she lay her hand on his arm, and he promptly removed it. "My boss is trying to get a softball team together.”

Derek really wanted to roll his eyes at her. He was positive Whittemore was not starting a softball team. The guy was a die hard basketball fan.

"Or perhaps a drink, my treat."

Just then, a glass of red wine appeared in his field of vision and a familiar hand pressed against the small of his back. 

Stiles pecked him on the cheek. “I don’t remember what kind this was, but Mrs. Argent assured me it was very dry and strong on the tannins like you like.”

“Thanks, babe.”

Jennifer glared at him for only a moment before a mask of polite fakery--was that even a thing?--replaced it. “Oh, my apologies. I didn’t realize you were…”

“Not available? Gay?” And oh damn, Derek knew that tone from Stiles well. It was one he’d dubbed the ‘Mama Bear’. Prior to the whole ‘Kate Debacle,’ he was certain Stiles would never raise his hackles over a woman making a pass at him. After ‘Kate’? Totally different story. "Shouldn't matter."

“Something like that. I just didn’t think college student was your type. You seemed so sophisticated. But you seem happy with Mr. Boyfriend here.”

“That would be _Doctor Fiance_ for your information,” Stiles’ tone was clipped, “I can hold my own, thanks.”

Derek took a deep breath. “Nice to meet you, Jennifer,” he said to her retreating back. 

“I’m sorry, Der. I shouldn't have said that. I wasn't jealous. I trust you. It’s...I just don’t trust women who hit on you.”

He tugged Stiles into a one-armed hug and kissed his temple. “I know you weren’t.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a the caterers grabbing bottles of unopened champagne and begin to wiggle the corks. “Stiles, come here. Right now.” He hoped there was enough urgency in his voice to get him to move with haste, but when Stiles didn't move, he knew he'd failed.

Without giving him time to react, he pulled Stiles’ forehead to his chest and clamped both hands over his ears. From the way he tensed against him, Derek knew Stiles understood. He could feel him mumbling against his chest.

Never in his life, did he think he’d have to memorize all the essential amino acids, but here they were. He wasn’t perfect yet, but getting there.  As the first cork popped, Derek joined in, hoping the added sound of his words would help muffle any sound his hands couldn’t block, “Proline, Phenyl-something,Tyrosine, Tryptophan, Serine, Threonine, Cysteine, Methionine, Asparagus, Glutamine, Lysine, Argentine, Histamine, Aspartame, and Glutamate.”

One-by-one corks came off the bottles, while they both continued repeating the list Stiles used for grounding in the rough moments. Though the sound didn't match that of gunshots, he knew it was similar enough. Only when there was enough champagne for everyone to have a toast, did Derek remove his hands from Stiles’ ears. With gentle hands, he turned Stiles’ face up to meet his, seeing the same glazed over stare he had become all too familiar with in the weeks since the shooting. 

Stiles licked his lips, and Derek could see him focusing on his breathing. Stiles’ fingers were still clutched tightly around the front of Derek’s vest, and he trembled slightly. In what Derek had come to realize was one of the best comforting gestures he could offer, he held him slightly, rubbing circles into the skin at the back of Stiles’ neck with his thumbs until he saw the haze detachment fade. “There we are. Welcome back.”

“Got a few wrong in there. Asparagus? Really?”

Derek smirked. “You okay?”

Stiles nodded. “Yeah. I think so. I still heard it, but you helped a lot.” He caressed Derek’s cheek with his thumb. “My hero.”

Derek leaned forward and kissed his forehead. “Your hero, eh?”

“Yeah,” he said, a tentative smile playing at the corner of his lips, “you’re the Lt. Gordon to my Batman.”

“Lieutenant and not Commissioner?”

“Not yet.”

Derek tilted Stiles’ chin up and kissed him tenderly. “I’ve seen what the job requires, and I don’t want that. I’m happy to stay Lt. Gordon to you. Where’d you run off to while I was stuck bored out of my mind with the Assistant District Attorney?”

“Making new friends. Did you know Allison’s wife, Lydia, is Dr. Martin’s daughter? The three of us: Lydia, Allison, and I are going to meet up for lunch this weekend.”

“That’s nice. You need friends outside of work too.”

“Tell me about it.”

 

***

Stiles panted and rolled off him, patting Derek’s chest as he stretched out to lay beside him on their bed. “Fuck, how I missed that. Don’t ever let anyone get away with implying you might not be good in bed. Just point them in my direction, and I will set the record straight. There will be slides and a presentation involved.”

Derek rolled over so that he could face him. “You’re impossible. You know that?”

“Yeah. Let’s get cleaned up so we can go to sleep. I’m exhausted. Wore me out, Derek.”

“Well, then,” he said, following Stiles towards the bathroom, admiring the view of his bare ass sticking out from beneath the hem of his t-shirt, “mission accomplished.” Once, inside, he turned around so Stiles could strip of of his undershirt and step into the shower, pulling the door closed behind him. 

While Stiles showered, Derek took the time to brush his teeth and set out Stiles’ nighttime medications. On the bathroom counter, his phone flashed, indicating he had a message.  _ It had better not be calling me in. I need this night off. _

Luckily, his night off was still intact. However, the message did come from work.

 

**_From: Parrish_ **

**_12:03 am_ **

**_Analysis came back on that substance from John Doe’s shirt. Medical grade silicone with traces of a bunch of chemicals I’ve never heard before._ **

 

Parrish had attached a list of the trace elements found. Derek wasn’t quite sure what to make of it.

“You being called in?” Stiles asked peeking over his shoulder.

Derek turned around, trying to ignore the small pang of sadness at finding Stiles already dressed again. “No. Just some results on evidence. Hey, what might someone use medical silicone for in conjunction with these chemicals?” He showed him the list.

“Best guess?” Stiles read down the list. “It’s makeup. I know special effects artists use silicone when making facial appliances for their makeups. But I’m pretty sure there is a commercially available product for the general public that’s used to cover recessed scars. I can ask one of our dermatologists tomorrow.”

The gears in Derek’s head began spinning. What if...their suspect had become spooked by the investigation and changed her appearance? This would make things infinitely more complicated.

After a quick shower, Derek crawled in bed and spooned around Stiles in the dark. Errantly, his fingers brushed against the marred skin beneath Stiles’ shirt. Next to him, Stiles flinched. “Sorry. I…”

Stiles relaxed, but moved Derek’s hand back to his hip nonetheless. “It’s okay.”

“Even though what I think about your scars doesn’t really matter, they don’t bother me. I know you hate them, but please don’t think you need to hide them around me. You’re still beautiful to me. I just want you to know that,” he said, bringing Stiles’ hand to his lips and kissed it. “I hate that you’re suffering, but I’m just so thankful you’re alive, that I don’t even notice the scars.”

“I know you don’t. I’m trying. I am. I swear.”

He kissed Stiles’ shoulder. “You don’t need to explain yourself. It’s okay. I just worried that maybe I had done something to lead you to think I might be uncomfortable with the way your surgery scars looked, and I wanted to make sure you knew I still find you breathtaking.”

“You’ve been great. It’s not anything you’ve done. It’s my insecurity, but I’m grateful you haven’t tried to push me to take my shirt off around you.” He rolled over, holding Derek’s hands between their chests. “I love you.”

“Love you too. I can’t wait to marri-” Before he could even finish his sentiment, his phone rang on his nightstand. It rang with the special ringtone he’d assigned to work. Once he saw it was accompanied by a text reading with ‘187’ and an address, he groaned and rolled right back out of bed. "One night off. That's all I ask," he grumbled out of his breath while he dressed for work.

He hoped it was unrelated to the case they’d been working on, but Derek was a realist and had never been that lucky. Besides, as the body count rose, he couldn’t help but shake the feeling that things were going to get worse before they got better.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> come visit me on [tumblr](http://http://captaintinymite.tumblr.com/)


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